Twice by Fire
by Kuroi-cho-tsuki-shiro
Summary: Hisana met Byakuya seven years ago. As her memory of him fades, her own past will find her on the streets of Rukongai, and now she will fight, or she will die. Byakuya x Hisana. 44
1. Chapter 1

The carriage continued to pass along the New Road every month. Hisana settled back into a routine of sorts. The house where she now lived was set back from the road in a busy district where the bustle continued day and night and new people arrived in a seemingly endless stream. She had less cause to see the black carriage now and even less inclination to think of the man who rode in it. Their meeting, she told herself, was nothing more than an anomaly in the vast expanses of time that skined out in these streets.

Seven years on, the nobleman's son, if not forgotten, was little more than a memory. As his presence had faded from her mind, so too had any lonesomeness. Survival was, once again, her greatest priority. Finding ways to go unnoticed on the streets consumed her time and attention. She traded for clothes, and food and water when she needed them, and for new furnishings for the house, which had been falling into ruin when she moved in, but she drifted always between different markets, different merchants: never revisiting the same area twice.

With every trade, she found another excuse to slip into Seventy-eighth again. She was searching. At first, she did so without even realising she did it, her eyes roving over anonymous streets, checking the passing faces.

She would know her if she saw her; she had never doubted that. To know that she was alive; that had become a compulsion. Because somewhere in these nameless, faceless crowds was the only proof that she had ever been alive: a link to who she really was, or had once been.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: You may not realise, if you have just joined us, that this is part of a wider story arc. If you are enjoying it and have the time, please click onto my profile and take a look at the stories under the heading "Memories of Rukongai." Getting the back-story will give this a richer context. If you don't have time, a very quick summary is:**_

_**Nine years ago, Hisana and Byakuya met. Byakuya (little more than a child) jumped in to defend her honour in a duel against a man with unusually strong reiatsu. This was Taro who, in the ensuing fight, lost his left arm and then swore revenge on the Kuchiki family. Seven years ago, believing that Hisana had continuing links to Byakuya, he tried to kill her and failed, giving her the chance to turn him in. Last thing she heard, he had been executed for his part in an assassination attempt.**_

_**One more important fact: Hisana and her sister Rukia, died in an air strike in the Second World War c. 1940.**_

_**All thanks and gratitude go to Shadewolf7, Truantpony, ForbiddenME, Pinky357, Immortal Vows, Chellythemadhatter, Insomniac95, sallydestroyerofworlds23, UNTensaZangetsu, XDArk FangsX, Superlynx, BobTheSexyTurtle and IchigoForeverLove for reading this far. Guys, you need medals or something. ;) Also to **__Ennaalemap, Makaykay15, Kaze05, Splash into Forever, War90, Yellowwomanonthebrink, Bakane, Night Flower, Hallmarktrinity, Tiffany Park, Snowcrystals, Neristhaed, Splitheart1120, VanillaTwilight4, Nightfur, Happykiller93, Haildance, Ani-mimi, Mysticalphoenix-avalon, Jennyrdr, Goranr, Firebirdever, Isleofsolitude, Itachipanda, Pamila di Castro and Lemgem._

_**Story…..**_

On one bright summer evening, after a day spent meandering through the back-streets of Seventy-eighth and Seventy-ninth, Hisana closed her door behind her and drew the bolts. It was stifling inside. That was just one more drawback to the houses here: made from mud-brick pounded with straw, they offered no relief from the weather. In winter she was cold; in summer, stifling. She started to untie the sash of her kimono, wiping one sleeve across her brow as she did so. And stopped.

Everything was the same, but everything was different.

There was more clutter. Everywhere, strung from every wall and ranged on every surface, were paper decorations, miniature parcels and packages. Propped against the wall were long sticks, the tips of which looked like tiny rockets. She cocked her head on one side, baffled by the additions to her living space.

"Little bird," said a voice from seven years ago.

She gasped and snatched the kimono shut, spinning to face the speaker as he grinned a gnarly grin, his face caught in the half-light from her closed shutters.

"How?" she breathed.

"You know the extraordinary thing about you?" he said: "You're so difficult to find! All these years and I couldn't even trace your name until a few months ago. It took me a lot of work, Hisana. Worth it though. It's a very pretty name." As he approached, he ran his good hand, his human hand, over her work surfaces, sending papers fluttering to the floor: "Did you really trust him to have killed me? Me?" She took a step back. "I wanted him; I wanted him so badly, Little Bird. Shun and the others took the fall for me. They would have been sacrifices to our cause, but no! Someone had listened a little too hard, hadn't she? Someone thought she could relay my words, one by one, to the _shinigami, _didn't she?"

"I only told him" –

"What?" He slammed his hand down on the work surface: "Everything. Everything you heard. They knew about our people in _Sereitei; _they knew about his parents. The one thing they didn't know about was me! And the one thing that puzzles me still after all these years is this: how are you still alive? How?" He lunged for her. She dodged and sprang onto the table behind him, sending paper packages flying; almost catching herself in the strings of decorations. With a roar, he upended the table and sent her sprawling into piles of his strange parcels and, this time, as she scrambled away, he caught her leg in metal fingers. She tried to kick him, but her bare foot only met steel with a hollow ring. He laughed: "When did you learn to fight, Little Bird?" His grip tightened, the fingers grinding into her bone as she clawed at the floor to get away. "Stay still," he said: "Like last time. I much preferred you last time."

She stopped moving and his hold on her slackened. It was no less complete, but no longer painful.

Lying face down in the paper decorations, she became aware of a pungent scent: spicy and smokey. She had smelt it once before and it awakened a terrible fear in her belly, though she couldn't recall the details. Only now she knew that she could not be here. She could not stay. Fear rose in her head like a scream and she felt her heart start to pound against her chest. Her breath made the paper flutter. "Better," he commented: "Now maybe you can tell me who saved you last time we met. Was it him?"

"Please" – she gasped as his grip tightened again.

"Don't beg for your life. It's already forfeit. You know that as well as I do, so the only question is how long you want to spend lying there, knowing that."

"No-one."

"I can't hear you."

"No-one saved me. No-one even helped me. It was blind luck; that was all."

"You've got friends?"

"No."

"Amongst the _shinigami?"_

"No!"

"What about your sister?"

She stopped breathing. He let go of her leg and, when she didn't move, he gave a soft laugh. "I don't have a sister," she said.

"Don't you?"

"She died. Nearly a hundred years ago."

"Oh well, that's a shame. Otherwise, I would really have liked to meet her." She heard him shift and move closer: "You're all alone then, hm? How long do you think that luck of yours will hold out?" He casually took hold of her leg, this time with his human hand, and pulled her towards him, through the noxious-smelling packages. He turned her onto her back and laid his metal hand on her chest: a dead weight, holding her down. He needn't have bothered. She had already stopped fighting him.

There was a neat symmetry to the events that had led her here. Vaguely, she wondered if Byakuya, passing by in a polished wooden carriage, would notice her absence next month. That was if she even existed in his memories any more. "The years barely touch you," said Taro softly: "We're the same, you and I. I've been here for nearly four hundred years and people like us are rare. We're like stars in the firmament; we burn too brightly for the dark" –

"We're not the same," she said. He smiled at her reaction, showing yellow teeth:

"Why would you say that?"

"Everywhere you go, you take despair and anger and hate."

"Is there anything else in this world?"

"That's why you belong here," she murmured. A deep calm had come over her and, with it, a sense of clarity. She could look at herself, at the whole of her existence, from a distanct point now, and begin to understand: "I was never here," she said: "I was never a part of this."

He slapped her, back-handed, across the face, switching her head to the side. There was no anger behind the blow, she realised. To him, it was just another part of the conversation; another kind of explanation:

"You're not so special," he said: "You were born in Rukongai and you'll die in Rukongai. Just like the rest of us." The weight on her chest lifted. Metal fingers closed instead around her shoulder, bruising the skin as he pulled her towards him, until she was held in his arms. He didn't hold her tightly, but she dared not move. The solid metal of his left arm was a hard line across her back; his right hand lay across her neck. She turned her head away so as not to see his face, but his body smelt of sweat and damp and the briny stench of the canal in summer. "I did some research, Little Bird, and I know now that you were never special. My little farm girl. I know where you lived; I know where you worked every day in those fields: back-breaking work. For what? Barely enough food to keep you from starving. And another mouth to feed. You must have resented her."

Hisana shuddered. She didn't want them to, but his words were reaching her, like poison, sliding in through the cracks. She thought often of her life in the real world, but it was always a dream to her. To hear it described, belittled, through his dry lips, was to change her memories into something tawdry. He was taking away the most precious pieces of her, one by one.

Feeling her trembling, he pulled her closer, pressing her face into his flannel shirt: "You see, I know everything there is to know about you, Little Bird. I know that you lived through history; you lived when every kingdom in the world was at war. The wars in my lifetime were nothing compared to that. And yet you were no part of it. Maybe you're right, Hisana. Maybe you never really lived. Maybe you were just passing through. Just drifting through." Cradling her, he rocked her gently: "And who's to say you ever really existed if you've left no trace of yourself in any world. Extraordinary to think that I will be the only one to know you ever lived. I'm priveleged. When you are no more than a memory, you'll be my memory, Hisana. Mine alone." She had curled up, her hands balled into fists against her chest. Now he shifted so that he could look into her face; he was a silhouette in the low light: a halo of foul-smelling grey hair: "I'm the only one who knows how you lived. And I'm the only one," he said: "Who knows how you died. Ka-boom!" He roared the last word, dropping her as he did, so that she sprawled into his collection of paper packages.

She rose to her feet giddily. Behind her, he was howling with laughter. She stood, swaying. When she moved her feet, they scraped through paper, but she felt heavy, as if his touch itself was like a sickness. He had torn through her memories as if they had no more substance than his paper decorations and, though he was no longer holding her, she could feel him all over her. She could try to run, but she was no longer certain who the person that escaped tonight might be.

He choked on the last of his laughter: "Do you like my presents to you?" he asked, gesturing at the myriad of paper packages: "Have you even the faintest idea what they are?"

She didn't answer, but glanced down at him over her shoulder. Chortling, he retreated towards the door and squatted down.

Of a sudden, she felt the air pressure around her change, grow heavier. There was static in the air.

She whirled. He was crouching, apparently concentrating on an orb of light that had sprung into existence just above his right hand: "I'm not very good at this, Little Bird. My spiritual pressure is equal to that of a _shinigami, _yet I've not had the training and, by nature, I haven't the elegance. But I've learnt a few things. This is the same trick Sojun Kuchiki used to deprive me of my left arm. It's just fire." He stood up: "I always wanted to make you feel the pain I felt that day, to show you how it feels to burn. Then, when I looked into your history, I discovered that you already knew. You've already burned."

He approached. Despite her despair and the weight of the air around her, she still felt a sliver of fear, forcing white energy into her muscles. There were two ways out, she knew. He stood between her and the door, but there was also a ladder to one side of the room, leading up to the mezzanine where she slept. She didn't dare move yet. She couldn't let him see the thoughts she was entertaining, though she wasn't even certain she had the strength to carry them out. One thing she was certain of was that she didn't want to hear his voice anymore. If she was to die, she wanted to see the night sky again and breathe air that wasn't full of the fetid odour of his decorations. "Do you remember, last time we met, I told you that fire couldn't touch you twice? I've changed my mind. I'll wager that it can."

And, as he spoke, he touched the orb of light to one of the paper packages. It hissed, fizzed. And exploded.

Hisana screamed and threw her hands up over her face as the air filled with smoke. It was happening all over again. The wall of fire that had raced over the rice fields. The sky black with smoke.

Except now, there was nowhere to run. One explosion set off another and another. The air filled with rainbow sparks and a thick, black stench. They were fireworks, she realised. The smell had been gunpowder. But be they fireworks or bombs, the flames were real enough as they caught in the blankets, in the rafters, in the straw thatch above.

Instinctively, she froze, as the same events she had witnessed nearly a hundred years ago replayed in her mind like a stuck record. But it was only a moment's hesitation because the greater part of her had already come to a decision; she wasn't going to die here. She scrambled towards the ladder that led up to the mezzanine, over the fireworks that hissed and burst around her. If they burnt her, she didn't feel it. Her fingers closed over one of the lower rungs, just as his clamped shut on her leg. She started to scream. For all the good that it would do her. She didn't expect anyone in Rukongai to come and help. She was alone, but she screamed and kicked until her lungs were raw and the rung of the ladder broke off in her hand. With slow purpose, he started to drag her back towards the fire.

One side of the house was gone. Or, if it remained, she couldn't see it, for the sheet of yellow flames. They were rippling across the ceiling, dripping into her upturned face. She clawed at him, but her nails only scratched over metal as he picked her up and pushed her towards the blaze. If she hadn't caught the edge of one of the work surfaces, she might have ended up in the fire. As it was, sparks caught in the hem of her kimono, setting it alight, so that she snatched at the burning frabric, smothering it with her palms. Her hands were burnt, but she didn't feel it. The smoke brought tears to her eyes. His high-pitched laughter reached her through the flames as she staggered to her feet. He was beside the door. Both were close, but she couldn't see them through the smoke. The house was black and deformed. She swayed where she stood. The fire had climbed to the mezzanine. Pieces of the roof were raining around her like falling stars. And suddenly he was there. He took her hand where she had reached out, feeling her way through the dark. He took her wrist and lifted her. Above his head. So that she was suspended in his metal grasp. The smoke was thicker still. Spasms of coughing made her body convulse and he laughed at her.

As her senses began to leave her, she felt something slipping through the fingers of her left hand. Reflexively, she caught it before it could fall. The splintered rung of the ladder, which she had been clutching since he had dragged her from it.

He was too intent on the life leaving her body to notice the movement of her left hand. She thought she wouldn't have the strength, that his skin would be like leather armour: impenetrable. But she struggled once, let the momentum carry her forward, and she felt the long splinter punch into his chest. Blood welled up around her hand. He dropped her. And his voice rose to a hectic wail: "You bitch! You stupid bitch!"

She clawed her way across the floor, in the direction she could only guess might lead her to freedom.

But she never reached the door.

He stumbled into her in the thick smoke. She knew he was dying. She had aimed for his heart, but it wasn't only that. The hand that found her now, in the dark, was cold and grasping. Metal fingers snatched at her, but found no purchase. She turned onto her side and prepared to fight him one last time.

He lunged at her. She kicked and clawed and beat at him, but still his hands found her and turned her over in the dark, and he hit her.

It was slow and heavy, like the death of a machine. His steel fist punched her in the torso and she folded over it like a broken doll, the breath exploding out of her lungs. She couldn't breathe. Partly it was the smoke. He was choking too. Both of them, suffocating. Flames drew strange lines across her vision, so that she could no longer be sure if it was her house or her mind that was burning. She couldn't see him. Something rushed in the darkness. Crunched into the side of her head. The initial impact was followed by a grinding weight on her skull, and then she was falling.

She lay on stone, her body too heavy to move. Her face was divided up like a harlequin, one side hot and wet. And there was pain, though that too was fading, along with her resolve. There was something she must do, somewhere she must reach, she knew. But she couldn't remember.

She couldn't remember anything.

The burning sky began to close. She thought there was a baby crying somewhere, but even that fell silent in the end.

***************************END OF TRACK 4 *********************************************

_Lonely thoughts, they seep into mind, into me._

_Push it deep, wash the dirt, a hard days work, know my place:_

_On my own; _

_No poison in my bones._

_On my own,_

_This is where I build my home._

_**From "Home," Ellie Goulding**_

_How I wish there was a heaven._

_All for one and one for all, a flawless soul society._

_My life is just a fragment of the universe and still,_

_There must be more than I can see._

_**From "Soul Society," Kamelot**_


	3. Chapter 3

**To everyone who has faved and watched this story. THANK YOU!**

**The next part is called A PLACE LIKE THIS. I'll upload it now. If you can't find it, look on my profile page.**

**To Shadewolf7, Truantpony, ForbiddenME, Pinky357, Immortal Vows, Chellythemadhatter, Insomniatic95, Sallythedestroyerofworlds23, UNTensaZangetsu, XDark FangsX, Superlynx, Ichigoforeverlove, Ennaalemap, Makaykay15, Kaze05, Splash into Forever, War90, Yellowwomanonthebrink, Bakane, Night Flower, Hallmarktrinity, Tiffany Park, Snowcrystals, Neristhaed, Splitheart1120, VanillaTwilight4, Nightfur, Happykiller93, Haildance, Ani-mimi, Mysticalphoenix-avalon, Jennyrdr, Goranr, Firebirdever, Isleofsolitude, Itachipanda, Pamila de Castro and Lemgem.**


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